


Grey

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel/Demon Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 04:23:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11305602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Aragorn aids a fallen angel.





	Grey

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for the sun is smiling’s “Legolas/Aragorn Angel/Demon” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/161379570810/au-prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He saw the light fall from a distance, and he heads towards it now, hoping that the veil of night will keep company away. Even the brightest angels can only glow so bright when Arien is gone, and any mortals that were looking up might merely have thought a cloud passed over a star. But demons with eyes as sharp as Aragorn’s will have recognized the blinking out for what it was, and many others of his kind bear bloodlust far greater than what he keeps at bay. 

He moves through the forest as silently as he can for just that purpose, and he keeps his sensed honed, but nothing larger than a fox stirs around him. He follows his own sense of direction, something well proven that’s rarely failed him. If he actually had fallen quite so low as his master first intended, Morgoth might have Gondolin and Galadriel and anything else he desired by now. But Aragorn holds out against the darkness in his veins, and he moves with only protection in mind. 

His search finally leads him to the mouth of a cave, and he knows at once that he’s found what he seeks—a sweet smell wafts out of it, far lighter and more fragile than the cloying woods all around him. Aragorn ducks beneath the low overhang and creeps through the blackness. He feels his way by a hand along the wall, though it isn’t long before the twists and turns have brought him to a shallow space lit by an open fire, kindled on only a few branches and dry leaves.

A beautiful creature sits before it. For a moment, Aragorn is still, caught in fascination and awe at the splendor. Nothing in his wretched life has ever struck him so. But the fair being lifts his head, and piercing blue eyes fix Aragorn to the spot, his knees shaking. His heart pounds in his chest.

The angel is lovely, in every sense of the world, each curve slender and soft, with pale-golden hair that streams long down his rounded shoulders, his lithe legs bare beneath white robes and folded neatly on the earth. He looks as much like an elf as Aragorn does a Man, except for downy wings that rise from his back, covered in feathers as pure as clouds. One wing is magnificent, draped down like a languid fountain, but the other is crudely bent and blotted with crimson blood, strangely dark against the rest of his light. He eyes Aragorn with a subtle tilt of his pretty head, then parts his pink lips to breathe, “Hello.” The language is one Aragorn knows, though the tongue is foreign, like an elf of Quenya birth trying fresh Sindarin. Aragorn ducks his head in a respectful bow of greeting.

When he rises again, he promises, “I will return shortly.” The angel opens his mouth wider, but Aragorn is already turning away.

He moves swiftly back to the outskirts of the cave, pleased to spot the very flower he needs close amongst the underbrush. But of course an angel would have such luck to land there. He rips a few strands from the earth and is already crushing them in his palms as he jogs back through the cave. The fire has dwindled a little lower by then, and the angel’s hands are outstretched over it, though the air is already pleasantly warm. The cave is a little stifling. Or perhaps Aragorn’s breath is just coming too quick because of the beauty he’s found.

He kneels next to the angle, pleased when the angel doesn’t pull away, and murmurs, “This is athelas. It’ll soothe your wound. ...May I?” The angel glances down at his hands and simply nods. Somehow, Aragorn had expected to have to try a bit harder at trust—he always imagined angels to be wholly delicate, ethereal creatures. But this one shows little fear and turns his wing to Aragorn, even drawing back a few stray strands of hair to make room. 

As Aragorn tentatively presses the paste against the angel’s foliage, the angel asks in a lilting tone, “Do you have a name, demon?” 

Aragorn holds back a wince at the word—he’s never liked it. He bears no loyalty to the vile beast that first twisted his line. But he still recognizes what he is, what longevity it gives him, what it’s done to the colour of his eyes and the sharpness of his teeth. He answers, “Aragorn,” and dares to question, “You?”

“Legolas,” the angel chimes, and it takes Aragorn a second to realize he isn’t hearing an exotic word but a name. It’s a sing-song sort of one, one that feels good to whisper in his head. Legolas’ supple fingers land atop Aragorn’s thigh, halting Aragorn’s work, but Legolas’ eyes are averted, trailing along Aragorn’s ragged trousers. He plucks once at the rough fabric, then lifts his hand and eyes to Aragorn’s chin, lightly tracing the stubble Aragorn hasn’t tamed in a few days. Aragorn’s breath hitches at the touch, but he presses through and forces himself to work, to gently cover the area in his makeshift medicine. Legolas muses, “You are quite handsome... for a demon.”

Despite the qualifier, Aragorn can feel his cheeks heating, and he grunts, “Thanks.” Then he wonders if that’s the true reason Legolas hasn’t pulled away, though any broken angel found by a hungry demon should fear dearly for their life. It’s for that reason Aragorn focuses only on healing; if Legolas is found by Morgoth’s other servants, whatever innocence he has will be cruelly ripped away.

“I have a hut not far from here,” Aragorn mentions when more silence has passed. It takes a surprisingly long time to apply the athelas, mainly because he’s being as careful as he can to disrupt as few feathers as possible. There seems something sacrilegious about him touching Legolas’ wings at all. “You are welcome to stay there until you have healed enough to fly back to your home.” He doesn’t say the name _Valinor_ aloud, though he’s sure it’s where Legolas is from. Knowledge of that place is best kept away from Aragorn’s lot. 

Legolas answers, “You are very kind.” Aragorn nods his head and half expects rejection—Legolas should give him that; it would be foolish to stay with anyone unknown in these trying times, though Aragorn will push for it nonetheless—Morgoth won’t claim this beauty on his watch. Legolas continues in a quiet drawl, “You bear Melkor’s affliction, but you are not corrupt. It is a shame you live in his lands... but this shows me that I was not wrong to fly so close after all. I knew there was more good in the world than only my little kingdom.”

“I may be no good at all,” Aragorn counters. “Perhaps I am fixing you up only so that you might make the journey to my bed or kitchen.”

Legolas shakes his head, dons a little smile, and tells Aragorn simply, “No.” Aragorn feels distinctly like Legolas has seen right through him. 

Aragorn finally finishes, dropping his hands to rub them clean on his trousers, and he wishes he had bandages with him. He considers ripping off a scrap of his clothes, but he wouldn’t know how to tie it without damaging Legolas’ wing even further. So he only shrugs and hopes rest and time will cure what’s left.

Legolas flexes the wing once, grins at it, then turns to place a chaste kiss against Aragorn’s cheek. Caught by surprise, Aragorn only stiffens. Legolas’ eyes trace his lips, and Aragorn parts them, thinking of _more_ , and wanting it badly, but then he breaks the spell and forces himself to turn away instead. He has no right to debauch any angel. He doesn’t know what to say.

Legolas murmurs, “I could carry you, I think. I am stronger than I must look to your eyes, and when my wings are healed, I might bear your weight across the sea. I have long thought it time that our peoples reconnected. Perhaps you will be my proof of that.”

It’s a struggle not to be overrun with hope. Aragorn replies, “Angels trust too easily.”

“Less easily than you might think.”

A wolf howls in the distance. The remnants of the sound twist through the hallowed walls of their cavern, and both of them turn towards the entrance. Legolas frowns, but he shows no more fear than earlier. Aragorn whispers, “To my hut,” and Legolas nods.

So Aragorn blows out the fire and helps his angel up, and they escape that first patch of darkness together.


End file.
